His Hand in Mine, But I Still Had Questions

The Car Ride

We didn't let go until we reached his car.

A black Maybach was parked illegally right in front of the building, hazard lights blinking through the rain. Everyone leaving the office was staring.

"Mr. Castillo," I whispered, pulling my hand back. "People are looking."

"Let them look," he said.

My boss. The billionaire who bought my father's bankrupt company three months ago, and with it, somehow bought my debt too. The man who had found me crying in the stairwell.

He opened the passenger door for me like I was something precious.

"Get in."

"My bus is —"

"Get in the car."

No one had said my name like that in two years. Not since the night he left Port Harcourt without a goodbye. Hearing his voice like that made my throat tighten.

Inside, the car was warm and smelled like his cologne and coffee. He took off his suit jacket and draped it over my shoulders. It was still warm from his body.

"You're shivering."

"I'm fine."

"You are not fine. You've been crying for twenty minutes in a stairwell that has no cameras."

I looked at him. "You knew?"

"I know everything that happens in my building."

He started the car. The rain drummed on the roof.

"Who was on the phone?" he asked.

I stared out the window. "The hospital. My father's bill. It's due tomorrow or they will move him out of the private ward."

He was quiet for a long moment, his hands tight on the steering wheel.

"How much?"

I shook my head. "You already did so much. You saved everyone's job when you bought the company. I can't ask you for more. I already owe you so much money from the company debt you cleared."

"You don't owe me anything. I bought the debt from the bank. Not from you."

"Forty thousand dollars," I whispered finally. "They need forty thousand."

He didn't even flinch. He just pulled out into traffic as if I had told him it was going to rain tomorrow.

"I'll have my assistant pay it in the morning. First thing."

"No!" I turned to him. "I can't take more money from you. I can't be more in debt to you. People already talk. They will think I —"

"That you what?"

"That I'm sleeping with my boss to pay my bills!"

He hit the brakes hard at the red light. Cars honked behind us.

"Is that what you think I want?" His voice was low and hurt. "Do you think so low of me?"

He reached over and took my hand again. His hand was still warm, familiar, like it had never let go in the first place. His thumb brushed over my knuckles the way he used to when we were in university, when we were just two kids, not billionaire and debtor.

"Why did you come back?" I asked.

He looked at me, really looked at me. The rain made his hair wet.

"Because you were still here," he said.

"That's not an answer."

"I know."

The light turned green. He didn't drive. The cars behind us kept honking.

"Ask me the rest," he said. "I can see them in your eyes. All the questions you still have."

I had so many. Why did you leave without a word? Why did you come back as a billionaire? Why did you buy my debt? Why are you holding my hand like you still have the right to?

What came out was softer.

"Why were you standing in the rain waiting for me?"

He finally smiled, and for a second he was younger again, not a CEO.

"Because you were walking in the rain. And you have always been terrible at remembering an umbrella."

I wanted to be angry at him. I should have been. But his hand in mine felt like coming home.